


shadows keep watching us

by staticbees



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Comes Back Wrong, Gen, Nightmares, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Jay, Post-Canon, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, To An Extent, jay lives, tagging jay because of skully they don't actually appear in the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-15 20:55:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15421425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staticbees/pseuds/staticbees
Summary: "He feels like he had after Jay’s investigation, all that time ago. He had been doing better, had left Marble Hornets and everything associated with it behind, hadn’t had a coughing fit in months. He had been so sure no one would find him here, had been so sure he was safe. And now, miles away from Alabama, his past has finally caught up with him, in the form of a person with a skull mask and a camera."





	shadows keep watching us

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is going to be rendered completely non-canon by the Skully comic. I wrote it anyway.
> 
> Sidenote: the title is from the song Big Houses by Squalloscope.

Tim Wright is drowning.

 

Water ripples above his head, and he struggles to break free, gasping desperately for air. Rain pours down in sheets, swelling the banks of the river above him, and forcing him back down into the dark. He’s swept along the current like a ragdoll, limbs limp and useless.

 

He reaches out blindly, fumbling for something, anything, to cling onto, and his fingers scrape against bark. He hooks his fingers around the tree branch, fingernails digging thin crescents into the soft wood. His hands are shaky and weak, trembling with the effort, but he knows he’ll die if he lets go. He pulls himself towards it, achingly slow, sharp splinters cutting into his skin until he can see blood, wispy and loose like smoke, drifting through the water.

 

His throat constricts, vision beginning to go dim, and he can feel his hold on the tree branch slacken.

 

_Not now. Not when I’m so close._

 

Just before he blacks out, he grits his teeth, and pushes, hoisting himself out of the water, and onto the river bank. He sinks to his knees, heaving, hands pressed flat to the ground in front of him.

 

His fingers are numb and shaking, skin tinted pale and bluish, like there’s icewater running through his veins instead of blood. His knees are smudged with dirt and his clothes cling to his skin, weighing him down. Rain and wind whips at his face, and he flinches, turns his head, squeezes his eyes shut against the deluge.

 

Before he can properly catch his breath, he starts to cough. It’s weak at first, barely noticeable, but soon it grows, the itch lingering at the back of his throat turning into an all consuming urgency.

 

His fingers scrabble for purchase in the slick dirt, his whole body convulsing as he hacks up blood, sharp and copper in the back of his mouth. His chest aches, throat burning. He can’t stop coughing. _Why can’t he stop coughing?_

 

He fumbles for a pill bottle, for something, anything, to stop the itch. There’s nothing there, just jeans soaked with water and dirt dark under his fingernails. He collapses to the ground, blood on his lips as the world slips away.

 

The rain keeps pouring down.  

  
  


Tim jerks awake, heart racing, struggling to catch his breath. He glances at his surroundings, eyes darting around wildly, and realizes he’s still at the motel he had checked into the night before, sheets crumpled up around him, bottle of pills sitting safe on his bedside table. It’s the middle of the night, faint moonlight spilling through the slits in his blinds, and the alarm clock displays _2:44 AM_ in blinking red.

 

There’s a loud crash from directly outside his motel room, and Tim tenses up.

 

For a few weeks now, he’s had the feeling that he’s being watched, a sense of unease that clings to him like spiderwebs. He had figured that it might be simple paranoia, but hadn’t been willing to take that chance. A few days ago, he noticed someone in a hoodie and jeans shadowing him at a local park, so he started taking precautions, locking the door when he left his motel room, and checking to make sure no one saw him come and go. Apparently, he hadn’t been careful enough.

 

Apprehension rising in his throat, he slips out of bed, and pushes aside the curtains to peer out the window.

 

A figure in a plain white mask with dark cut-out circles for eyes and large, block-like teeth is standing next to his car, handheld camera gripped with gloved hands. They have on a beige hoodie and blue jeans, and thin, dark brown hair sticks out from the top of their mask. They look almost familiar, as if Tim has seen them before, but he can’t place where. He stares at them, dread pooling in his stomach.

 

The person in the mask looks up, their dark, hollow eyes meeting his own, and they jerk back, looking startled. He sees them freeze for a brief moment, as if hesitating, and then take flight, dashing down the street and into the night.

 

“Hey, come back here!” Tim yells after them, but they’re already gone.

 

He feels like he had after Jay’s investigation, all that time ago. He had been doing _better,_ had left Marble Hornets and everything associated with it behind, hadn’t had a coughing fit in _months._ He had been so sure no one would find him here, had been so sure he was _safe._ And now, miles away from Alabama, his past has finally caught up with him, in the form of a person with a skull mask and a camera.

 

He decides he’ll check out of the motel the next morning. Changing locations hasn’t done much good in the past, but if there’s anything he can do to throw the masked person off his trail, he’ll take it.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Nothing happens for almost a week. No cryptic messages, or stolen pills, or anything else he associates with totheark and his masked self. He hopes they’re gone, but knows it’s more likely they’re simply biding their time, so he stays cautious, keeping an eye on his pills and setting up cameras to watch for intruders.  

 

The second time he sees them is in broad daylight. He’s strolling through a local park, cigarette perched between his fingertips, when he sees a flash of white out of the corner of his eye. He whips around to see the person in the skull mask standing by the tree line, watching him with hollow eyes. They tilt their head, camera trained on Tim.

 

“Hey!” he snaps. “Leave me alone!”

 

They don’t answer, just stand there, silent.

 

Tim clenches his jaw, his frustration boiling over. “ _Who are you?_ ” he demands, glaring at them. “What do you _want?_ ”

 

They stare at him a moment longer, camera lens glinting in the sunlight, before turning and walking into the woods. He swears under his breath.

 

“Hey! Answer me!” he shouts after them.

 

There’s no response.

 

He briefly considers grabbing a flashlight and heading in after them, before remembering what happened all the _other_ times he followed someone blindly into the woods, and decides against it. He’ll be more careful next time.  

  
  
  
  
  
  


A few days later, he sees the person in the skull mask again. This time, he’s prepared.  

 

They’re outside his motel room, fiddling with their camera, and they startle when he rushes at them, seeming surprised that he would attack them without provocation.

 

They’re fast, but not a skilled fighter, their movements clumsy and uncoordinated, and Tim easily overpowers them, tackling them to the ground. He wraps his hands around their wrists, pinning them down into the dirt. They struggle briefly, like a bird with a broken wing, before going limp, as if they’re resigned to getting caught.

 

Tim rips off their mask before they can stop him, tossing it aside. They turn their head, but he wrenches it back until he can properly see their face, anger coursing through him. They look at him with wide, unfocused eyes, mouth open in a silent plea, and he jerks back, shock coursing through him.

 

“ _Jay?_ ”

 

Jay, or the thing that used to be Jay, takes advantage of his surprise and wriggles out of Tim’s grasp, getting to their feet with a slight stumble.

 

Hands shaking, they grab their skull mask and fix it back on their face, adjusting it slightly so it’s even. He sees them relax slightly once it’s back on, hands uncurling. They’re still on edge, though, jerking their head to look behind them every few seconds, movements quick and twitchy, like they’re ready to flee at any moment.

 

“Are you okay?” he ventures.

 

Jay doesn’t respond, eyes darting around frantically, like they hear something that he doesn’t.

 

Tim sighs. “Okay, so maybe that was a stupid question.”

 

He’s about to press further when he feels a tickle at the back of his throat, and starts to cough, covering his mouth with shaking hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flicker of a man in a suit standing behind Jay, a surface of blank white where his face should be. The _Operator_ . Tim recoils. He feels sick, nausea churning in his gut. _Not again. Not now._ He’s been taking the pills, this shouldn’t be _happening_.

 

He grasps desperately at his pill bottle, fingers fumbling to untwist the cap, but the coughing fit is steadily growing worse than it’s been in months, harsh and retching, and the bottle clatters from his hands, rolling to a halt at Jay’s feet.

 

Jay turns towards him, looking concerned, but Tim can’t concentrate on them through the static buzzing at the base of his skull, the bitter salt taste of blood on his tongue. He doubles over, throat burning, his hands on his knees. Blood stains the soil beneath him, and he suddenly remembers his dream, remembers the terror that overtook him, the water filling his lungs.

 

There’s movement from behind him, and Jay is grabbing his arms with gloved hands, dragging him upwards. Tim can barely stand, wracked with violent coughing, but he gets to his feet anyway, leaning on Jay for support. They run towards his motel room, Tim stumbling slightly on the uneven ground.

 

When they get inside, Jay slams the door shut behind them, and Tim slumps against the wall, head pounding. Jay offers him the pill bottle, smeared with blood and dirt, and Tim takes it with shaking hands, swallowing a handful of pills. He closes his eyes, translucent red behind his eyelids, and waits for the coughing to subside, white noise reduced to a low buzz at the back of his skull.

 

Once he’s able to speak again, he turns to glare at Jay, who’s standing silent next to him.

 

“You _led him here_ ? What were you _thinking_ ?” he demands, voice raising in pitch. His throat is hoarse from coughing. “You _knew_ this would happen, didn’t you? But you just _had_ to come find me, huh, _had_ to drag me back into this. This is _just_ like you,” he says viciously. “You never even gave a thought about how other people were affected by _your_ actions, just plowed on ahead with that stupid _fucking_ camera of yours!”

 

Jay doesn’t respond, just stands there, silent. Tim scowls, hands clenched into fists. “Why won’t you just _say something?_ ”

 

They stare at him for a moment, mask blank and expressionless, and then sign something rapidly, hands moving through in the air in a movement Tim doesn’t understand. Whatever it is, it’s not ASL, or any sign language he’s ever heard of.

 

Tim stops, caught off-guard. “Can you… speak?”

 

They shake their head.

 

“I’ll get you something to write with,” he says finally. He’s still pissed with them, but he figures it’s not fair to yell at someone who can’t yell back.

 

They follow him into the kitchen, arms wrapped tightly around their chest. Tim rummages through a drawer, and hands them a notepad and a pen.

 

He looks at them, a question on the tip of his tongue. They tilt their head, and scribble down a question mark, holding it up for him to see.

 

Tim hesitates. “How did you get here?”

 

Jay shrugs. _woke up alone in the woods. no memory. static in my brain. found you. came here._

 

“Why _me?_ ” Tim demands.

 

They shuffle their feet. _nowhere else to go. you seemed–_ They struggle to find the right word, pen hovering hesitantly over the paper. – _safe,_ they finish finally.

 

How had _he_ seemed safe? After everything that happened?

 

Tim bites his lower lip. “Do you… remember? Anything?”

 

 _some of it._ They pause. _memories don’t feel like they’re mine. feel like… someone else’s._

 

“Oh.”

 

_still know what happened, though. got shot. the one who did it. is he alive?_

 

“Alex is dead.” Tim says shortly.

 

They look relieved. _good._

 

“Jay–” Tim starts.

 

 _not jay,_ they write immediately. _different._

 

 _Different. Like his masked self was_ different _?_

 

He takes a breath. “Okay. Not-Jay–” He hesitates, a thought occurring to him. “Do you have a name?”

 

At their questioning head tilt, he says, almost defensively, “I’m not calling you Skully.”

 

 _don’t have a name,_ they scrawl.

 

“Do you want one?”

 

Not-Jay shrugs. _guess so._

 

Tim thinks a moment. “How about Steller?” he suggests.

 

They nod. _like it. fits._

 

“Okay,” Tim says. “Steller it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> 


End file.
